


A Certain Lack of Understanding

by Reavv



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chronic Pain, Crack Treated Seriously, Dubious Science, Explosives, Gen, Language Barrier, Mage (Dragon Age) Rights, Modern Girl in Thedas, Scheming, Science, fight smarter not harder, non verbal communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25659337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: The logical side is gibbering about how she was just finishing up insurance paperwork and ignoring her family’s text messages, but the emotional side is twelve ambulance sirens in a wind tunnel.No surprise which one she ends up listening to more.—In which a modern day pyromaniac with chronic pain crash lands into a game she doesn't even really like anymore, and spends so much time trying to science lyrium she forgets to pretend not to be suspicious. It's ok though, not as if anyone can understand her anyways, since she's seemingly lost all understanding of language.
Comments: 72
Kudos: 369





	1. Chapter 1

She wakes to a world on fire. And that’s no prosaic metaphor; the ground is one step away from molten slag and through the haze of pain she can already tell she’ll be walking away with some rather impressive burns as she collapses towards it.

Or, maybe walking is a rather optimistic description. She has just enough time to notice the renfair soldiers heading her way before the black spots in her eyes swallow her whole.

There’s something rather familiar by the quick snippet of consciousness she’s afforded—like a dream half-remembered. Unfortunately, most of her brain is too occupied with screaming in agony to really dissect the inconsistencies with her current reality.

The logical side is gibbering about how she was just finishing up insurance paperwork and ignoring her family’s text messages, but the emotional side is twelve ambulance sirens in a wind tunnel.

No surprise which one she ends up listening to more.

—

She wakes again. For a given value of waking; she can barely open grimy eyes, and although she faintly registers the echoing sound of bodies underground—shuffling, a cough, even more distantly footsteps coming closer—it’s all overwhelmingly overshadowed by the absolute burning in her arm.

She can’t breath with the pain—it’s as if someone is holding her palm to a butane torch while simultaneously unraveling her tendons inch by inch. She gags, reflexively, stomach rolling with the pain, body desperately attempting to purge whatever is poisoning her. It’s not poison though—just nerve endings on fire.

There’s a crash, and distantly she has to wonder at the timing. Did Cassandra really wait around until the most dramatic moment to enter and do the whole strutting peacock dance?

Words, but her ears are still not working. A hand grabs her arm roughly and she—

She doesn’t black out. Isn't that lucky. But the scream has to be unnerving enough because she’s let go, the soldiers around her flinching.

Leliana this time, a disquietly gentle hand cradling her jaw and peeling back one eyelid. More words. No clue if it’s the continuously flaring neurons that are intercepting her understanding, or if the trade tongue is an actual language she doesn’t know. Whatever the case, she remembers enough of the game to—

Wait a fucking second.

Dank dungeon, trigger-happy soldiers in renfair armour, chained hand pulsing a sickly green colour, Cassandra and Leliana looking increasingly unnerved.

Ah shit. She doesn’t even really like the Dragon Age games. Not enough to hallucinate it, at least. Too many writing fuckups, although the gameplay was fun and some of the character writing—no, focus. Assuming she’s hallucinating, she really doesn’t want to know what it is her mind is trying to protect her from. For all she knows she’s just been kidnapped by organ harvesters—might explain the pain.

“You fuckers have any Advil?” she rasps, throat reminding her that she hasn’t had anything to drink for—a while. Days, if hallucination logic follows game logic.

More incomprehensible words. Cassandra unlocks her chains and jerks her to her feet, which isn’t any less painful than what she imagines getting stabbed would be like. She’s given just enough time to get her legs under her before she’s being hustled out of the cell and towards a set of stone stairs.

She doesn’t bother keeping her noises of pain quiet—Cassandra is a hardass, but she’s not without empathy, and if this isn’t some weird fever dream caused by organ harvesters then she’s going to need to get the woman on her side. Hard enough to do before you take into account that they don’t even speak the same language.

They make it out of the chantry and into sunlight, and there’s this whole spiel on the steps that she just barely pays any attention to—the Breach is actually sorta pretty, in an earth shattering, cthulhu-esk sort of way. It scratches the itch in her that screams for dark expanses—deep seas, deep space, train stations at night.

She’s jerked around again, Cassandra giving up on imparting any meaningful information. There’s dirty looks from around them, but she doesn’t pay it any mind—the NPCs will all about face when the Breach gets sealed, and their trauma-based prejudice isn’t actually that interesting.

Instead she takes stock of herself. Generic beige leggings, soft leather wrap-shoe things, greenish-brown tunic that looks like it’s been mended multiple times, grey fur overcoat. It’s cold, but not freezing, and she can’t tell if that’s her Canadian heritage speaking or if the clothing is more insulated than it looks. No weapons, obviously. Body looks...the same? From what she can tell. Soft shape, muscles gone to seed. The body of a depressed office worker. She can’t see her face, but idly bringing her still-bound hands up to tuck a strand of hair out of her face reveals perfectly round ears.

Still human.

Actually, wasn’t Cassandra supposed to cut her bindings by now? Or is she misremembering things? Or perhaps having a mute prisoner with no goodwill dialogue has resulted in a difference in the script.

Whatever it is, she hopes she gets cut loose soon, because traversing through demon-infested—Frostbanks? Frostbacks?—without any means of protecting herself is going to be annoying as is.

At least her pain is fading into a general background noise she’s more used to—not quite her regular chronic pain, but about the same as an after-physio baseline. She jogs a little closer to Cassandra and tugs the back of her tunic to catch her attention.

A burst of words that sound just as angry as the last burst of words, but the woman turns. They’re a step away from the bridge at this point, and the skies are still spitting chunks of earth. She brings her bound hands up and tries to look innocent. Hard to do—she’s always had a bit of a resting villain face.

More words, before Cassandra huffs and shakes her head. She does reach out to take the offered wrists and cuts through the rope with a small dagger she gets from... somewhere.

Just in time too, as a piece of falling rock and earth goes slamming into the bridge, collapsing their only way across. Presumably some of the renfair soldiers die too—she can’t remember, were they in the original blast? There weren’t any bodies in the game, but it’s not like she can trust her current reality to follow the game script. It’s already changed, after all.

Cassandra shouts, already rushing forward to deal with the demons that appear—which, why? Couldn’t they go around and just bypass them now that they’re not stuck on the same level as them? Although she supposes it’s Cassandra’s duty to deal with demons and such, especially this close to civilians.

She doesn’t follow. Instead she watches from the ridge of the valley and inwardly critiques the fighting. Masterful, of course, because Cassandra is very good at her job. But also a little boring—the shades aren’t very...intelligent.

“Oi! Cassandra! You got incoming!” She yells down when the second shade appears behind the Seeker.

Cassandra stabs the first shade through the centre and does a magnificent twirl, ripping the shade to bits while maneuvering herself to face the second one. She has to refrain from clapping, since it probably wouldn’t be appreciated.

She waits until the second shade is dispatched before slowly sliding her way down the cliff. Cassandra waits for her at the bottom, looking a shade less annoyed than before. Perhaps being able to work some tension out by bashing demons in has calmed her down a bit.

They move on.

She doesn’t try to reach for a weapon—even a mace wouldn't help her much, considering her lack of training and strength—and Cassandra doesn’t give her any potions. Just as well, honestly, since she’s more likely to try and use a potion as a molotov cocktail than drink it.

Actually—lyrium potion molotov cocktail sounds like something that might actually have an interesting effect.

By the time they hear more fighting she’s already got a list of things to try. Thedas has some sort of blackpowder, as seen with the Qunari, but blackpowder isn’t the only explosive out there. She vaguely remembers something about the fall of Haven about a pallet of...potions? Alcohol? Something. Ignoring that, she’s sure the dwarves would have some sort of blasting recipe, for mining. If Sera can make a jar of bees a weapon, she can introduce the Inquisition to the art of demolitions.

Cassandra is looking a lot less sanguine. Fighting solo through the valley has netted her a collection of minor injuries and a more serious case of exhaustion.

She’s not completely heartless—she calls warnings when possible, distracting wraiths and shades by jogging in circles to give Cassandra time to recover, throwing rocks to disrupt their attacks. It’s still not the same as having another fighter there though.

They crest the last hill and run smack face first into the melee under the first rift. It’s like a little shard of the Breach—just as beautiful. It’s almost too bad that she’s going to have to get rid of them all.

She weaves through the fighting. It’s not too hard, even if her stamina is shit and she’s gasping from a combination of exhaustion and lingering pain. Once again, the shades and wraiths here don’t seem the most intelligent, and there’s enough bodies in the way to keep their attention off of her. She’s not looking forward to dealing with human opponents. Or elven opponents. Or dwarven—

A hand grasping her wrist, pulling her up. She saw him coming and made the decision not to flinch, but it doesn’t save her from the pain. Not just the touch, which digs into her nerves and bursts her blood like the soft petals of a cut flower. But the subsequent pull-push of the rift itself, stitching itself close. She can feel each stitch like a spike in her bones.

Words—new voices, same old lack of understanding.

She grins with blood in her teeth at the concerned faces of Solas and Varric. Her hatred of Solas comes more from the community’s love of him—he’s otherwise a pretty uninteresting villain to her—but she does share the community’s love of Varric. Ah, good ‘ol Varric. She wants to hold him like a teddy bear.

Solas grabs her hand again—gently this time, although that doesn’t stop the faint echoes of pain from jumping up and down her arm. She lets him do his thing—no doubt worried his mcguffin is going to eat her alive and then he won’t be able to use her for his plans.

She uses her other hand to gesture towards Varric.

“Varric,” she says, and then has to stop when his incomprehension registers to her. Ok. Obviously the names she knows for them don’t translate properly. Which is odd. Unless her language barrier isn’t just as simple as she assumed.

“Varric,” she tries again, more determined. She points to him, and then waves her hand near her hip, palm down. She points to him again, makes the gesture again. She turns to Cassandra, left hand still in Solas’s grasp, forcing herself to twist awkwardly.

“Cassandra,” she says, bringing her hand up into a fist against her chest. Point, gesture, turn.

“Solas,” she says, ignoring his sharp eyes. She pauses and eyes him back. She could maybe make a vague reference to his wolf tooth necklace, but…

“Solas,” she repeats, bringing her hand up to sweep against her head, an obvious reference to his lack of hair. She’s always enjoyed the community’s use of egg memes for him. And if there’s a pinch of tension in his eyes, all the better. Pride should have thought about how making his most defining feature his baldness would mean that his most defining feature is his baldness.

Varric of course picks up on it the quickest, making the gesture she’s saddled him with and then pointing to himself. He then points to her.

She pauses. Shrugs. Ignores the pain in her hand. Brings her hand up again, palm out, fingers splayed.

“I don’t know,” she says, a wry grin touching her face. She’s been trying to ignore how certain parts of her memory are blank—her name, the names of her family, what her apartment looked like—but she also doesn’t trust herself to pick something to replace them. Names are important. A name given is equivalent to power given—something she has no place to risk right now.

“Idunna?” Cassandra repeats, accent turning the phrase into a semi-acceptable nickname.

She shrugs again. It’s good enough.

With that settled, and with Solas finally satisfied with his checkup, they move forward again.

Newly named Idunna makes sure to jog to the end of the clearing to pick up the discarded staff for Solas to use, and then uses his bulk as a literal meat shield as they encounter the next set of demons. The Dread Wolf is too self-serving to get hurt, which means she’s the safest right behind him.

And it makes him twitch, which is a fun bonus.

—

“So what’s her story?” Varric asks, watching as the odd girl jumps to the side of the road to pull up a handle of weeds, roots and all. They’ve been traveling for a relatively small amount of time, and already the so-called Idunna is stacking oddity on top of oddity.

“We’re not sure,” the Seeker replies, looking uncomfortable. “Whatever language she speaks is unknown to Leliana and I, and there is little of note in what belongings she arrived in. We were unable to question her, and know little more than we did when she was first found.”

“We know it is unlikely she was the perpetrator to the explosion,” Chuckles butts in, eyeing the girl in question. “She is no mage, and the amount of power that would necessitate such a force is out of reach of even the most powerful.”

“That does not mean she is not guilty. She could be an accomplice,” the Seeker points out, looking only partially mollified to know their strange companion isn’t a mage. All three of them watch as Idunna stumbles over a tree root and only just catches herself by hopping forward on one foot.

“A strange accomplice,” Chuckles replies ambivalently.

Varric has to agree. Idunna has the body of a spoiled Orlesian princess, the clothing of a Fereldan street urchin, and the attitude of a Kirkwall resident. So far she has shown no real skill at anything useful—certainly not fighting. She speaks something that sounds more like gibberish than an actual language.

She would be a useless spy, an incompetent assasin, and a mediocre sabateur.

He’s being less than generous, he amends, as she skips backwards to thread a wildflower through his hair with a grin. In the fights they’ve faced so far she’s been smart enough to stay safe behind those capable of defending her, while also using basic tactics to aid where possible. He’s rather fond of her use of rocks in disrupting the demons’ attention himself.

There’s no doubt she’s clever.

He’s had to defend worse clients.

“I am worried about her sensitivity to the Mark,” Chuckles continues. “Based on my research, it should not be troubling her as much as it is—even dormant, it is obvious it is painful to her. We will have to take care with the Breach. There is a chance that the backlash will negatively affect her to a larger degree than the smaller rifts did.”

“That is if she can close it in the first place,” the Seeker grimly reminds them all.

“No use worrying about it now, Seeker. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Varric interrupts, not quite ready to rehash all the gruesome ways they could fail. Adventures with Hawke have already worn him thin when it comes to borrowing trouble.

“Let’s hope there’s fewer demons on the way to the Temple—protecting a non-combatant through all of this is going to be a pain in the ass.”

Vague agreement from his companions and a confused stare from their resident enigma. Idunna makes the call-sign that she’s saddled Varric with—as if it’s not going to be confusing when they meet any other dwarves, or even just a very short human—and babbles a short phrase in that gibberish language of hers.

“I’m going to pretend you’re showering me with compliments on my rugged looks,” he tells her with a grin. Their pace has been slow—Idunna has the stamina of a dying dog and only half the amount of strength—and he’s gotten a little fond of the girl despite himself. She’ll probably die when they get to the Temple, and then he’s going to end up a little sad about it.

There’s little discussion after that, as they fall into more pockets of fighting, and then finally the forward camp is in view. The following arguments and shouting mostly go over Varric’s head. He keeps track of who is in what political faction, but already knows that the Chancellor is only grasping at straws at this point, and the rest are an inch away from drowning and know it.

It’s more interesting to watch Idunna stare hungrily at their surroundings, as if trying to memorize them. She’s holding her left wrist in a weird grip: thumb on the pulse point, tensing in a rhythmically cycle, as if the Mark can be coaxed away like a muscle cramp.

Around the third iteration of the argument, Idunna walks away, ducking under Chuckles tall form to wander over by some crates. The Seeker doesn’t seem to notice, but although the Nightingale doesn’t show anything, he’s not stupid enough to think that _she_ doesn’t. He raises an eyebrow at Chuckles.

“It would be good to be more equipped, whatever path we choose,” the mage says, a careful non judgemental statement that can be taken however the listener wants it to be.

Good enough for Varric.

“Right, be right back,” he says as he turns to follow Idunna.

He catches up in time to see her inspecting a box of empty vials suspiciously, as if the clouded glass is somehow part of some great conspiracy. She turns and transfers her glare onto him, more gibberish escaping in the process.

“Woah, what did a bunch of potion bottles do to you?” He holds his hands up placatingly.

She peers down at him for a moment before sighing, collapsing to the ground in an artless sprawl. She blinks up enticingly at him and mimes taking a drink with the empty vials.

He frowns.

“I’m pretty sure none of those are going to be useful for you. Except maybe the health potions, and I’m pretty sure we would have noticed you getting injured,” he says, but dutifully riffles through the boxes until he can find some untouched vials.

She gleefully grabs one of the lyrium potions and uncorks it. He twitches a little—lyrium poisoning is no joke, and she’s neither a mage nor a Templar—but she just fills one of the empty vials a little, muttering in her odd language as she does. She fills the other vials with a series of seemingly random amounts of lyrium, eventually capping the originally filled vial, still about half full. She then places them carefully on the ground and dives for another box—this one full of leather belts.

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish here,” Varric complains as she carefully threads the vials into the belt and then cinches it to her waist. “Trust me when I say us dwarves have figured out every possible application of lyrium out there.”

She just grins harder at him—more of a smirk, really, face too angular to really pull off an innocent grin—and adds a small dagger to the belt. At least she has some sort of weapon now, even if it’s more of a boot knife than anything else.

The rest of the gathered equipment she takes is less confusing—tinderbox, heavy coat, canteen and field rations.

Soon the Seeker is stomping over looking as thunderous as usual.

“We’re taking the mountain path,” she snaps, evidently having lost the argument. Varric carefully doesn’t let his relief show—trust the Nightingale to maneuver things so there’s a chance her lost scouts can be found, while still maintaining her lethal bard reputation.

They gather in the now familiar-feeling formation, the Seeker taking point while the rest of the fan out behind in a triangle, keeping their weakest member between Chuckles and himself. The first hour is quiet—the path to the mountain is narrow, and unmaintained, and most of the party is unused to traversing dense underbrush.

By the time they make their way to the first set of ladders, Idunna is wheezing, and Varric himself is reminded that he’s spent that last week or so stuck to a chair telling tales.

“What use do you suppose she has for the lyrium?” Chuckles asks during a pause, causing the Seeker to twitch in surprise and turn around to stare at Idunna.

“I’m not sure,” Varric replies truthfully. “She doesn’t have the signs of an addict, and that’s really the only use for small doses like that. And we already know she’s not a mage, which only leaves Templar training.”

All three of them take a moment to imagine Idunna as a Templar.

“No, she does not have the training indicative of the Order,” the Seeker refutes, looking physically pained. “And although she might not seem like an addict, it might explain her...deficiencies. I am told it addles the mind.”

“Not to the extent of forgetting language, not before it starts shutting down the body. And she might not be the most athletic of ladies I’ve ever met, but she’s not suffering organ failure.”

“Indeed, when I stabilised the Mark I found no traces of serious illness or injury, beyond what would be expected from the aftermath of the blast. Minor burns and scrapes from her fall,” Chuckles adds.

The conversation ends there—none of them are what you would call friends, although Varric is usually quite accomplished at making allies out of even the most reticent foes.

Idunna on the other hand seems incapable to even attempt niceties—she’s too busy gasping after every ladder rung.

—

Screw saving the scouts, the mountain path is the worst option possible. Not just hiking through rough terrain, but having to climb rotten and uneven ladders with her weak arms, in the biting cold as the wind lashes out at them and freezes her lashes together.

At least she was smart enough to get another coat, this one with a hood deep enough to hide in.

She can’t tell if the cold is soothing the Mark, or if the amount of pain she is in from other sources is making it seem less severe. Either way, the tension headache she’s been nursing since she woke up—and the accompanying nausea—is just starting to fade, leaving in its wake a scoured-clean feeling of doom.

She’s not physically fit. She hasn’t been physically fit since her childhood. She once did a school hike and cried halfway through. She blamed it on asthma and was only half lying.

She’s running on adrenaline and the blade’s edge of dissociation right now, but as soon as she has more than a fifteen minute break she’s going to crash, and when she does she’s not going to be able to walk for a week. If she’s not currently in a coma or strapped to gurney having her liver removed, that means that she’s going to be in no shape to go traipsing around the Hinterlands rescuing fantasy bison.

Delegation, she promises herself. They don’t have the manpower for everything right now, but mock up a few propaganda posters and write a few letters to some bards or heralds or whatever, and she’s sure she can change that. Sit the starving bandits down and point out that they can eat some good fucking food for once if they sell their souls to the inquisition.

Maybe if she’s not the one doing the side quests no one will be so quick to martyr her. Then again, leadership is more effect if you’re seen with the people—yeah, but fuck that. She’s not here to be a leader.

She ignores the fact that she’s not here for anything, as far as she knows.

“This is bullshit,” she tells Varric, charmed beside herself that the blossom she tucked into his hair is still there. She mostly did it because otherwise the dissonance was too great—he’s a video game character, and yet when she gets close he smells like woodsmoke and ink. Visually though, she keeps expecting pixels and code—the flower is proof that he is changeable.

They finally make it to the top of the ladder gauntlet and find themselves inching into darkness and smelling the residue of sugar-sap she’s starting to associate with demons. Lovely.

The others talk quietly for a second before moving forward, ushering her back into her VIP spot. She feels a little bit like a rich socialite surrounded by bodyguards. Before they can coddle her too much she ducks past and snatches one of the torches off the wall.

Why the mines have lit torches she doesn’t even know—the place is supposed to be abandoned, right? Then again, she vaguely remembers there being an office somewhere, so maybe this is actually one of Leliana’s outposts.

The others look at her a little weirdly as she siddles back into formation—hey, she might not have an eyepatch and therefore a way to combat night blindness, but she also doesn’t have a weapon to worry about. She might as well hold some light for the rest of them.

Of course, she could just use the Mark as a nightlight, but that wouldn’t give her convenient access to fire. She eyes the rift in her hand in thought.

Actually, that’s something she could try; if lyrium reacts to the Mark in any useful way. If she ends up with a trigger in her palm she might not even need to figure out how to use a tinderbox. Later though. She needs the mark to seal the Breach, and probably shouldn’t be messing around with it until she’s more settled.

Later though she’s going to be very, very reckless with it. It’s not like she’ll get to keep it—she has no delusions of being able to convince Solas against his villain arc, which means either way she’s gonna have to learn to live without it in the future.

She occupies her time imagining progressively more dangerous experiments to drive Solas crazy in the future as the rest of the group dispatches the demons in the mines. She doesn’t have a neat little pinging system for loot, but she riffles through anything that looks interesting when her babysitters let her.

Fereldan currency makes no sense, but the coins are pretty. She gets another dagger out of it too, slightly longer and slightly more likely to do actual danger to an enemy. Maybe she can poke someone’s eyes out.

Soon after they find the remnants of the scouts, and the rift they’ve been battling.

Should have just run, she can’t help thinking. The rifts seem to mostly be activated by the presence of sentience—human, animal, whatever—and there were less demons in the mines than at the rift. They could have fought those off, with a higher chance of survival.

She has no real room to talk, however. She hasn’t run, after all—despite the way the fighting makes her body shake and her throat ache around the gag she can’t let escape. When she finally registers how much danger she’s in, she’s going to be in real trouble, she can just tell.

She takes the confusion of the fight to duck behind a rock, and sets her torch down to uncork one of the lyrium vials. She has no clue if lyrium is actually reactive—she can’t remember any lore that says it is, and yet, something tells her it has to be somehow. The fade loves exploding, after all, and lyrium is so insatiable in other ways. She has no clue if it needs magic to react, or if a spark will do—but luckily she has both nearby.

She lets herself waste a little time on one small test—lighting a lyrium soaked rag with her torch—but even then can’t make any conclusive findings. What she wouldn’t do for some pure ethanol right about now.

She can’t stall any longer.

She stuffs another rag into the opening of the smallest dose and stands back up, picking up the torch as she does.

The party is holding their own, but there’s still demons pouring into the battlefield, and although most of them are engaged with her allies there’s a few wraiths in the wings that are far enough away she shouldn’t hit anyone even with her poor throwing skills. She lights the rag and winds up.

The first vial lands at the feet of a wraith and shatters without much to show for it. That’s a no on fire being a catalyst then. She ducks down behind the rock again as the demon turns its attention towards her.

She’s very tempted to throw one directly at the rift—not only is it a piece of weird Fade bullshit just like lyrium is, but it’s also magic, which would cross off her other hypothesis for a catalyst.

Probably not a great idea when all her allies are fighting directly under it, though.

Instead she throws the next vial—a larger dose—towards the demon Solas is targeting. No guarantee he’ll end up hitting any large enough concentration of the stuff with his spells, but it’s as good as she’s going to get right now.

She ignores his startled look.

She uncorks another vial contemplatively and tries to regulate her breathing. Her whole side is on fire—the pulsing pain of the Mark a background staccato, directing the symphony of pins and needles twitching her body this way and that. The muscle burn from the amount of hiking and running and climbing only vaguely registering under all of that.

The screech of a demon nearby has her flinching—it’s one of those spindly-looking ones, the bullshit disappearing ones. Time to move.

Skittering across the packed earth to another piece of rubble has a sharp blade dig into her ribs—oh her lungs are not happy with her right now—and she clenches her teeth so hard against the new pain that she’s sure she’s cracked a tooth. They need to end this fight now, and quickly.

Right. Lyrium is obviously biologically reactive—the fact that it can get the taint means it is in some fashion alive. Chemically that means shit all, and she doesn’t know enough about either sciences to theorise properly. Most biological wastes—which lyrium is, being Titan blood and all—aren’t that unstable. Poisonous, maybe, but not exothermic or explosive. Lyrium isn’t just biological waste though. It’s also Fade bullshit, and somehow is able to open someone’s connection to the Fade. It certainly has an effect on magic, and magic is certainly reactive and explosive.

So.

If non-magical fire and external magic doesn’t seem to do the trick, and lyrium is technically blood—

Ah shit, that won’t work either. There’s no way someone hasn’t accidentally bled on their lyrium cache before, and despite the taboo of blood magic it’s not as if blood mages don’t use lyrium. It would make some sort of logical sense—blood rejection is the only thing she can really think about when it comes to blood reactions. But blood rejection is an antigen reaction, and who the fuck knows if Titan’s even have antigens.

She has only one other idea.

She spills a bit of lyrium onto the ground to wet it and then re-corks the vial, rolling the cork the mess in an attempt to get as tight a seal as possible. She then wraps her cloak around her hand and carefully holds the vial over the torch.

She doesn’t have time to get it as hot as she wants—although the vials are surprisingly well crafted considering the technology of Thedas, and how difficult clear glass is to start with—it’s not tempered to withstand heat. Not to mention the fighting is almost over and soon she’ll need to close the rift.

She doesn’t have to wait long, luckily. As soon as the faintest bit of blue wisps lick up the side of the glass she wrenches herself up again and lobs the smoking vial towards a lone wraith. Her aim is horrible—but she can’t even mind, because she sees before it even hits the ground the glass shattering, the sudden cold air causing the heated air and gas inside to contract.

The resulting explosion is small—but powerful enough to completely disintegrate the wailing demon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a fight, a recovery, and the vaguest outline of a plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually don't retain motivation to write the same fic for more than a chapter at a time, but this time I have been blessed. I already have a good chunk of the next chapter too. 
> 
> If you want to scream with me about Dragon Age's dumb timeline and world building (and how fucked up Thedas is) join the [ discord](https://discord.gg/cun3KPZ)  
> 

“What was that? I thought you said she wasn’t a mage!” Cassandra snaps once the rift is closed, anger twisting her features into an ugly snarl. Fear cramps her guts strangely—she didn’t even feel the girl touch the Fade, not outside of the constant flow from the Mark.

The apostate frowns, even as Tethras raises his hands placatingly.

“Woah there Seeker, calm. She’d been peppering the battle with projectiles the whole time—I’m pretty sure that’s what the lyrium was for.”

“Indeed. I am unsure of the exact process used, but I noticed her attempt it more than once. The last one was the only successful attempt,” the apostate offers, a hint of understated curiousity in his voice.

“Lyrium does not act that way!” Cassandra snarls.

“You don’t need to tell me that, Seeker. Dwarf, remember? Only the raw stuff is supposed to explode,” Tethras soothes, keeping his body between her and the prisoner.

“There’s no telling how lyrium reacts with the Breach in the sky, nor the smaller rifts. It’s quite possible that it would magnify the already unstable Veil and cause a similar effect to spellcasting,” the apostate replies.

She huffs.

The prisoner looks up from inspecting the remnants of the fight and ignores the curious looks of the scouts to wave them over. She looks completely unconcerned about the wide berth they’re giving her.

“I suppose we’ll just be ignoring that she’s causing unexplained explosions, after an unexplained explosion destroyed the Conclave,” Cassandra grunts, moving closer and finally holstering her sword.

“Normally I’d say you would be right to be suspicious, but, uh, I’m going to go out on a limb and say this one is probably innocent. Otherwise she’d be better at making things go boom,” Tethras says wryly.

“An incompetent assassin need only succeed once,” the apostate replies, voice void of any actual accusation. She’s already noticed how much he seems to be careful of placing blame on the prisoner—he’s already made his opinion on her innocence quite clear.

The prisoner waves them closer more emphatically, and now that Cassandra is paying closer attention she can see the drawings she’s been scratching in the dirt.

It takes a moment to understand what they’re being shown. There’s a series of symbols, first something that she assumes is supposed to be a fire. Then a vial. Next to the vial is what looks like a spiderweb. At the end is a misshapen tree.

“Ah,” the apostate mutters in surprise, kneeling down closer. “Changes in temperature have been noted to affect the results of some potion brewing…”

“You understand this?” Cassandra asks, brow furrowing.

“I believe she is trying to explain her process. Heat applied to lyrium, then rapidly cooled, will cause instability in the potion and cause it to explode.”

“I get most of that except the spiderweb, how does that translate into cooling?” Tethras muses, taking out a notepad to scribble something.

“I believe it’s meant to portray the structure of an ice crystal—ah, it may be more recognisable if you compare it to the shape of a snowflake,” the apostate replies, gesturing to the surrounding snow.

“My eyes aren’t good enough for that,” Tethras snorts.

Cassandra herself has never truly made a note of a snowflake’s shape—as a child she rarely saw snow, and now as an adult she is much too busy to simply watch the snow fall.

“Enough,” she snaps, the ridiculousness of the situation digging into her limited pool of patience. “We are losing time.”

She doesn’t bother waiting for their agreement. It takes a minute more to organise the remaining scouts—too exhausted and wounded to be much help further, she sends them back to the forward camp—and by the time she turns back the prisoner is standing once more.

They depart without any more talk.

—

The Temple is...bad. Horrible would probably be an understatement.

Turns out the amount of crisped bodies in the game was a tasteful minimizing of the death toll. At times there’s no clear path—they have to walk over and on the burnt and melted bodies of unrecognisable mages, Templars, and Chantry workers.

The smell is—well. It’s nothing like she’s ever smelled, but under the general burnt flesh and acrid sulfur she can smell that same sugar-sap scent she associates with demons. For a second she wonders if that’s something normal to Thedas—is there a lore book out there somewhere explaining why demons smell like a _Cabin a Sucre_ being burnt down.

Those kind of thoughts can only distract her for so long. It’s lucky she hasn’t had anything to eat in while—when she inevitably starts wretching after accidentally stepping on what she vaguely recognises as someone’s hand, only watery bile comes up. It certainly adds to the general aroma, and burns her throat, but she can wipe her mouth and continue going.

Her companions mutter sympathetic nonsense, but no one looks too surprised.

They continue forward, eventually picking their way across the broken rubbled into a mostly intact doorway. She’s unsure how parts of the Conclave have survived—the inner dome is somehow more intact than the outer structures. There’s less bodies here too—she assumes because they were vaporised in the blast.

She tries to visualise what it looked like before all this, based off of the existing ruins and what she remembers from the game, but no matter what she does it doesn’t fit.

“Wow, if you think about it, I’m pretty sure this is a plot hole on the parts of the level designers,” she tells Varric. On one hand, not having to be careful about spoilers is nice—on the other hand it’s probably not great for her mental health that she can’t speak to anyone.

Leliana joins them, there’s red lyrium, a spooky voice she can’t understand starts echoing everywhere. Whatever.

She stops herself from trying to get a sample of red lyrium to test for explosiveness later—she’s going to assume the game’s description of it is accurate, and she has no desire to turn into a statue or become a Blight petri dish.

She’s distracted soon anyways by the incredibly weird sight of herself in IMAX size hanging up in the air. As far as she can tell, the scene being shown is canonical to the game, but she doesn’t remember any of it. It looks like her body though, so at least she can put to rest the fears that she’s body snatched some poor bugger.

Cassandra snaps some more gibberish but at least doesn’t look like she actually expects an answer—she’s directing more of her questions to Solas. Before they can get too involved in the discussion, she ambles on over and crouches down in the dirt again.

“C’mon, egg boy, we need to make a plan because I’m for sure not getting anywhere close to the upcoming pride demon,” she says, using Solas’ name sign to catch his attention.

She doesn’t necessarily have time to be pretty or exact with her sketches, and she has no real idea if her meaning is going to get across. Still, better to try than to let the Inquisition run roughshod over her just because of her lack of language.

They quickly establish a couple symbols and gestures—hands together to make a triangle for the Breach, a clawing gesture for demon, a closed fist with thumb extended jerking over her shoulder to signal retreat, a similar gesture in the front to signal a charge. The more abstract concepts and planning she has to do almost completely by drawing—she doesn’t have enough experience trying to mime anything more complex than what they’ve got so far.

Leliana joins them at one point, and between her, Solas, and Varric—who all have some experience in Thieves’ Cant or cyphers—a vague outline of a plan is established.

Cassandra and the melee-oriented fighters will keep the attention of any demons that come through, while the range fighters will provide support and protect Idunna from any stray demons while she runs around disrupting the rift. If possible, she’s to stay close to Leliana, who is skilled at both the bow and daggers, and will be able to protect her without risking her own role in the process. Cassandra needs to be their frontal assault, and won’t be able to do the same.

And then she can’t stall for any longer—it’s time to fight.

“Well,” she mutters to Leliana as they brace themselves under the rift. “If things go to shit, let it be known it was lovely to see you in person. Burn my body instead of letting Solas steal away with it, will you?”

No answer, of course.

Idunna forces her shaking knees to lock together and gulps down as much air as she can. Pain is easier to handle sometimes than the threat of it—forcing herself to reach up with the Mark, when she already knows it’s likely to be ten times as painful as the small rifts shakes her to the core. That’s without taking into account the life flashing before her eyes at the thought of having to survive a pride demon.

There’s a roar of wind and energy as the Mark connects to the rift, vibrating her bones so hard she bites clean through her lip. It takes a second for the pain to flare—takes a second for her nerves to register the attack. But once it does she immediately falls to her knees, grunting as one of Leliana’s hands just catches her in time so she doesn’t faceplant. It feels like someone is dragging through her muscles with a rake—like her tissue is being ripped out thread by thread.

She is absolutely sure it’s not supposed to hurt this much, no matter how much she’s unsuited to Thedas. She is barely keeping conscious, even with Leliana’s help. Her arm is locked above her head, which is lucky, since she doesn’t have the strength to keep it up herself.

Then there’s a snap, like a rubber band contracting back, and Leliana’s hand turns punishing, dragging her up and on her feet. She’s pushed back, letting herself be semi hidden out of view by Leliana’s slight form. There’s a scout at her side, taking her weight as Leliana draws her bow back, and the fight is on.

Idunna is still groggy with pain, but she does her best.

That’s all she’s got at this point.

—

Leliana feels somewhat chagrined when she thinks on their strange saviour. She’s easy to dismiss—having neither strength of arms nor clever words to fall back on. Leliana is maybe not as biased as Cassandra or Cullen on what constitutes _strength_ , but there is truth in what _use_ people have. And their prisoner seemed to have very little besides the strange stigmata on her hand.

But not just anyone can keep their head while in crippling pain—nor can they adapt to strange situations without even the basic explanations afforded to those who speak the same language. Their prisoner is clever enough to figure out what took them days, in the matter of hours, and work together with hostile strangers.

It’s not clear exactly what Idunna kows of the Breach, but she knows _something_. And, if what Cassandra says is true, is not unwilling to try and explain. She’s level headed enough to immediately try and bridge their gap of understanding, using a bastardised version of cypher and Thieves’ Cant.

She parries a swipe from a shade and whistles sharply for Idunna to move to her left—although the hand gestures are useful in a non-combat situation, she needs both hands for fighting, so they’ve had to improvise—and moves them further out of the way of the main fight.

It’s tricky, keeping them close enough to the rift that Idunna can disrupt the demon’s protection, while still keeping far enough away from the pride demon that she’s not in danger. Or, as much danger, she amends, tugging the woman to the side as a blast from a wraith explodes nearby.

Slinging her bow back into her hands deals with that.

Idunna flashes her a grimace of thanks, and then braces herself again to continue her work with the Mark. They’re safe from attack for now, Cassandra adept at keeping an enemy’s attention on herself, and the rhythm of the fight is working in their favour—the demons come in bursts, but disrupting the rift weakens them all, which gives them time to maneuver.

Leliana keeps a hand on Idunna’s shoulder, giving her what strength she can, as the woman gathers herself. There’s a roar of rage from their right, as the protective barrier on the pride demon falters, and the activity of the soldiers and scouts energises.

She lets hope fill her lungs, the idea that this might be over almost dizzying in intensity. The Divine won’t be coming back, it’s true. Nothing can change that. But they might still be able to salvage what they can. They might still be able to close the hole in the sky.

“A little more!” Tethras yells, dodging nimbly out of the way of one giant fist. “It’s slowing down—we need something with a bigger punch!”

At her side, Idunna slumps an inch more and fumbles with her potion’s belt. Her hand seems stiff and awkward, however, and the vial slips from nerveless fingers. There’s the spitting of what must be a curse, and then she’s tugging on Leliana’s arm to get her attention. A quick sharp gesture from the woman has Leliana turning back to the battle.

“Solas! Idunna cannot last much longer—she is attempting to communicate something about lyrium and your magic,” she yells out across the battlefield.

There’s a pause from the mage before he gestures sharply to the surrounding fighters—Leliana idly wonders at how even just a few hours with their prisoner-turned-saviour has made those closest to her incorporate more body language to their speech.

“Fall back! I am uncertain how large this will be,” the mage yells over the roar of the demon. Both Cassandra and Varric are quick to follow his lead—something they’ve discovered during their fighting in the valley?

Later, she’ll have time to pick apart her memories to understand what she next sees. In the moment it doesn’t look like much—Solas holds his staff in one hand while he takes out a lyrium potion in the other. There’s a pause—what looks like a fire spell concentrated around one hand while a different spell is being readied through the staff—and then movement.

The vial goes flaming across the battlefield, arcing up and over and hanging for just a moment right in front of the demon’s unsettling eyes, and then the second spell is unleashed, a tight, dizzying spear of ice, shattering the vial.

Leliana flinches at the resulting explosion of heat and light, bright enough to leave after images behind her lids, but in the second she’s blinking it away she opens her eyes to empty space and only a hint of a shadow on the ground.

The demon is gone.

The Breach spits lightning and dust, as if in anger, and Idunna takes a staggering step closer again, leaving Leliana’s protective embrace.

It is that image that will stay with her—this strange woman, who is neither fighter nor diplomat, limping forward in pain to bring her hand up and yank at the threads of the rift for one last time. It is Idunna, hallowed by the sickly light of the Breach and hair burnished as if on fire—as Andraste must have looked, on the pyre—

Leliana has been wrong many times in her life, whether in faith or in deed. She’s clung steadfast through tribulations both large and small. She is becoming used to doubt.

But now she is learning what it means to step beyond that. To know doubt, and to know hope, and to sit on the edge of both.

Perhaps they have not been forsaken, as she once believed.

—

Idunna goes down hard. It is not a surprise, not really, considering her reactions to the smaller rifts. And it is not surprising that despite her determination, the Breach does not disappear. It is sealed, for now, but closing it would require an equal amount of power to what caused it.

He does not let himself linger too long on the thought of where the orb is—no doubt still in Corypheus’ possession. It would be easiest for Solas to wait nearby until the magister attempts to retrieve the Mark, as he is sure he will.

A lock is no use without the key, after all.

It is because of that that he finds himself dashing across the hard ground as soon as Idunna starts falling. He still does not know all there is to know about the Mark and its connection to the fade—and its connection to the human. Whether it will continue on after her death, or will be lost forever, or if it might still somehow be separated.

Until he knows, the survival of the woman is paramount.

A smaller part of him is also interested for interest’s sake—she knows things about lyrium that he has come to realise are secrets to most in this age. Solas’ himself had little to do with Mythal’s war against the Titans, but he’d seen the way their blood would interact with the world pre-Veil. Now, he realises the rules are not quite the same.

He quickly bends down and checks Idunna over—alive, thankfully. The Nightingale is already at her side, half holding her up as the soldiers around them cheer.

“How’s it looking?” Tethras asks, ambling closer. The Seeker is a step behind, already barking orders to a group of scouts to clear a path back to Haven.

“A case of physical and magical exhaustion. She might not be a mage, but prolonged contact with the Fade in such a fashion has—stretched her, let us say. She should recover, but I would be more comfortable if we had access to more supplies,” he replies, feeling the way the Mark moves sluggishly with his prodding.

It feels as if it has hooked into her blood somehow, grown roots in her body. It is also slowly growing larger.

He reinforces what defenses he has been able to cobble around it and turns his attention to the rest of her. Healing has never been his forte, but luckily she does not seem to be majorly injured. The worst is muscle tears and sprains.

“Can she be moved?” the Seeker asks, looking grim.

He nods, pulling back so that the Nightingale can heft her up further and transfer her into the Seeker’s arms.

“Not to rain on anyone’s parade here, but are we sure she’s going to survive another attempt? There’s still a hole in the sky,” Tethras asks as the rest of them start preparing to move.

“But it is silent for now. We have bought ourselves time,” the Nightingale replies, glancing quickly at the surrounding soldiers. “And this is just proof that it is possible, if we can find a way of supporting her during the process.”

“Sufficient magical power would fuel the Mark,” Solas offers. If they had the orb it would be child’s play, but there’s always the option of fueling the Mark manually.

“We can think on the particulars later,” the Seeker barks. “We should bring her back and make sure she is safe quickly. I am unsure what tales the soldiers and scouts have been telling in the meantime, and there were many who did not look kindly on her when we left.”

“Would be pretty awful if our only means of closing the hole in the sky died because of an angry peasant,” Tethras says wryly. There’s tired agreement from the rest.

Solas sees the light behind the soldiers’ eyes and feels that they might have the opposite problem on their return.

Fanatical devotion needs just a seed to grow.

—

If she dreams, she doesn’t remember it.

She’s floating in a void between wakefulness. She can feel the bed under her, a somewhat lumpy pad topped with roughspun sheets. She can feel how her toes are slightly cold, having escaped the thick blankets. She can hear the crackle of a fire, the smell of smoke. Somewhere in the distance she can hear laughing, the footsteps of people, the clanging of soldiers.

She feels the pain under a layer of cotton. She muses that they must have given her the good stuff—not quite as strong as codeine, but close.

She peels her eyes open and stares sightlessly for a moment up at a wooden ceiling. She hopes to the god she doesn’t believe in that they haven’t given her laudanum. Hopefully there’s a painkiller spell, and she’s not going to be dependent on medieval chemistry. Living in a society where beer is safer to drink than water is going to be difficult enough.

She debates just laying there for another three days, before sighing and forcing her body to move. She’s stiff, which isn’t a surprise. She’s also thirsty as hell, which is also not a surprise. There’s a pitcher of something by her bed that she hopes is snowmelt and not lake water, and she spends a moment staring into it suspiciously.

Does Thedas know germ theory? She knows that prior to the Church’s cultural genocides most ancient societies had some surprising scientific knowledge, but since Thedas is a religious dictatorship written by white-centric nerds who used fantasy tropes instead of history as their base, who knows where it sits in development.

They have black powder, and numbers. Orlais was clean enough in the games that they would need some sort of sewer system. Ancient elves supposedly lived in paradise. Astrariums are basically telescopes. They have trebuchets.

They also think non-magical healing involves leeches.

She forces herself to chug a cup of water—and then another one when that’s not enough—and gets up to investigate the rest of the cabin.

She’s just started poking her fingers through the bars of the raven cage—who decided her cabin needed a raven in it? And where can she bug them for a bigger cage?—when the door opens.

She glances back and—seriously Cassandra, you sent an elven servant? Despite the fact that Idunna can’t understand anyone anyways? The smart thing would be to send Varric or Solas.

Instead of trying to calm the suddenly nervous elf, she just collapses back onto the bed and struggles through trying to shove her feet into the provided boots. There’s a moment where it looks like the elf is going to try and help—which, haha, no—but then they just bow really low and escape.

The forgotten basket of herbs and goodies is left behind, and Idunna picks through it curiously. She doesn’t recognise any of the plants, but she probably wouldn’t be able to even if she wasn’t stuck in a fantasy world. She’s not what you would call an outdoors type.

She sticks everything onto one of the tables and eyes the clutter.

There’s a lot of little things in the cabin. Things that she would call set dressing if this were still just a game, and that the magpie in her is itching to catalogue now that it's supposedly real life. She finds her potion belt, and two side bags, and starts stuffing anything that looks useful into both of them.

Bundles of herbs tied with string, hard biscuits and cured meats wrapped in cloth, shiny rocks and bits of metal, a sewing kit, a small empty notebook and matching charcoal stick, a small bag of bird feed, what she assumes is either makeup or cocaine. She completes her haul with a bundle of rope she tucks into her belt.

Having sufficiently wasted enough time, she peeks through the door, and catching sight of the horde waiting for her, immediately turns and heads for one of the side windows.

There’s a latch, and if she can just get it open she should be able to squeeze through and completely bypass the villagers. The whole Herald thing is not something she wants to have to deal with right now.

After a good five minutes of trying to heft the heavy panes open, she admits defeat. Sometimes she can’t even open her modern day windows—there’s no way she’s opening the thick glass and metal monstrosity that these are. The fact that they even have latches is somewhat surprising—even if it’s in the means of this era of technology, Haven is old and poor.

She grimaces and turns back to the front door.

Silver lining: the townsfolk need to see her for their own morale, and she needs to be seen if she wants to keep her power as their chosen one. Ethically, letting them brand her a messiah when she knows she’s not—and when she thinks their religion is bullshit in the first place—is probably iffy. Practically, she has no leverage here besides what they give her. She’s going to have a hard time leading them anyways, and proving herself without martial skills is going to be nigh impossible.

Someone else can be Inquisitor, she muses. Cassandra maybe. Except Cassandra would still treat mages as dangerous children in need of a stern hand, and her involvement with the Chantry would make her unlikely to enact any true change. Leliana is somewhat more suited, but only if they can curb her tendency to kill before asking questions.

She shakes her head. No, she can’t live in denial. The Inquisition is a joke as an organisation. They were lucky that events never had to truly test them as anything but a military force—that it wasn’t until Trespasser that it became obvious how unsuited they were, and it was brought to light.

Not that she thinks she’ll do any better. But at least her leading model isn’t the Chantry.

She opens the door and forces herself to look at the faces in the crowd. There’s more people than she expected, but they’re arranged in something more natural than what she remembers from the game. Haven is bigger too, she can tell right off the bat. She might actually need to find someone to show her around.

Still, a church is hard to miss, especially since there are so few two story buildings here. She doesn’t let herself hesitate, walking as confidently as possible while feeling like the slob she is. She hasn’t washed or brushed her hair in what has to be almost a week now, and she’s quite aware her skin has a tendency to break out if she’s not careful. She’s probably breaking all their fantasies about their beautiful Andraste’s Herald.

Sorry folks, just a regular ass human, pimples and all.

It takes her a few minutes to find the main road, and with the way the town is laid out she soon makes out the top of the Chantry over the houses. They’ve chosen to room her close by, not surprisingly. Instead of heading directly for it, she takes a couple more minutes to explore. She finds the tavern, what’s more than likely a small market square, a row of buildings she thinks are barracks, and Varric.

“Varric!” she chirps, gesturing to him. He grins and gestures her name back.

He looks over her for a second and laughs, saying something and pointing to her outfit. She nods gravely.

“These pjs are really weird, aren’t they? What's with all the metal bits?” She laughs. Neither of them understand each other, but they share grins anyways.

She doesn’t stick around. She still needs to head to the Chantry, and until she figures a better way of communicating, there’s little she can say to him. She does pluck another wildflower and tuck it into his hair again, though. She’s gotta seduce the fuck out of these people so they love her, after all.

He laughs her off.

By the time she makes it to the doors of the Chantry her grin has faded. Looking around really hammers home how fucked Haven is, both in the sense of their current situation and in the future. The few mages and Templars she sees look like they’re one word away from a riot, and the villagers aren’t helping matters much. And although Haven isn’t by any stretch of the imagination crowded, the buildings were built to trap in heat and protect against the elements. That means small quarters and close neighbours.

A lot of them are built out of wood, too, which explains how quickly the town burned up in the attack. They’ll need some serious fire safety training to make sure that when the time comes people aren’t trapped inside. Besides that, she notices a lack of proper sewage. There’s groves in the sides of the roads to guide water down the hill, towards the lake no doubt, but that does nothing to hide the stench of refuse.

She wrinkles her nose. They’re lucky that disease doesn’t take them before Corypheus does, honestly.

She ignores Cullen and the Chancellor—Rodick?—arguing and heads inside. She would share a sympathetic grin with Cullen, but his boy band hair can’t keep her from remembering how frustrating she found his dialogue in game.

The inside of the Chantry is actually rather pretty. She didn’t have the time or the wits to inspect it before, but she’s always found something charming about old stone religious buildings, even if the religions themselves are ugly. The vaulted ceilings and stained glass, combined with pillars and nooks and carvings, give it a sense of enticing secrets to discover. No doubt she’ll find herself poking her nose into every corner soon enough.

Inside the war room she finds organised chaos, as Leliana unrolls a map onto the table and Cassandra paces as she dictates something to Josephine, who herself is writing furiously in a ledger. Behind her she can hear Cullen’s footsteps, and she quickly steps aside to take up a position next to the map.

Leliana greets her with her gesture and the others snap to attention, nodding or calling out their own greetings. Josephine surprises her there; she not only bows but follows Leliana’s lead and uses her gesture name, plus a few others. Some sort of Thedasian sign language.

She squints, but the gestures are no more recognisable than their spoken words. She smiles at the attempt anyways—Josephine looks disappointed but not surprised.

Soon everyone is arrayed around the table, and the debating begins. Idunna gives them a few minutes to let them burn through their arguments. She has a vague idea of what they’re saying anyways—they’ll want to go to the Hinterlands, and seek support with Mother Giselle.

She hurriedly draws what she can while they exhaust themselves. She tries to keep it to the basics—there’ll be time for other matters afterwards, and trying to communicate everything at the same time will just lead to more misunderstandings.

She starts with the obvious. One of Leliana’s agents should head to Redcliffe and give the mages there another option, instead of feeling like they have to be forced into servitude by a Tevinter Magister. Another should go to—whatever the name of the Templar fortress, she’s never actually played that quest. She can’t think of a good way to depict that it needs to be done secretly—once again, complex ideas are going to be hard to communicate—but if Leliana is the one to do it, then it’s likely to be done quietly.

They don’t necessarily need to recruit either camp. It’s unlikely that they would succeed either way. The important thing is to establish communication and warn them of the danger they’re in. Hopefully, if Tevinter doesn’t know the mages are looking to join, they won’t use time magic to get there before the Inquisition. As for the Templars... Well, maybe they can convince one or two to defect before they all die.

She wishes she could communicate her desire to recruit the mages and Templars fighting elsewhere too; she wants to believe that if they’re given other options—ones that are not given while fighting for their lives—some of them might make better choices. If they can make an agreement with the Hinterland farmers for food in return for protection and services, they might be able to entice the various factions.

It’s not like either of them are able to survive on their own—both have been so hobbled by the Chantry when it comes to living a regular life, their only real option is banditry.

Then again, she doesn’t know how she would convince them in the first place anyways. It’s one thing to say that both sides are victims of the corruption of the Chantry, and quite another to get people to agree with you.

She does scribble a couple ideas for recruitment to show Leliana and Josephine anyways. She tries to think if there’s anything else that needs to be set in motion this soon. They should probably deal with the Wardens, somehow, but she has no clue where they are at this point. Working for Corypheus, of course, but she can’t remember if it was established where. There was a fight in a castle at some point, but that was during the quest line that she pretty much slept through, so she doesn’t have anything useful there.

She leans back in thought.

She could recruit some of the companions quicker, she supposes. But there’s a use to having them come to them on their own. The only one she can think of that she would want sooner is Cole, and that’s because she’s curious if he could understand her with his powers.

She tries to dig in deep in her memory of the games. If she convinces the Inquisition that red lyrium is Blighted, could they use the Warden’s treaties earlier? Until whichever red army shows up, probably not.

Is there any support they can find from the royalty? She has no clue if Alistair is king here, but you would think the first step with such a large scale catastrophe would be entreating the government of the country, not the church. They do eventually get support from the Orlais royals, but that’s halfway through the game.

Is there a reason the King or Queen of Fereldan can’t help?

She scribbles that down as well.

Finally there’s a pause in the debate, and she leans forward again to place the notebook on the map, right next to one of the markers they’ve been moving around. The group blinks, as if abruptly reminded of her existence—that’s going to get annoying quick—and Leliana leans forward to pick up the book with a raised brow.

Idunna waves her off and watches her face as she flicks through the pages.

Now to see if her drawings are effective at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> want to talk fanfic with me? Hit me up [ here](https://discord.gg/cun3KPZ)

She wonders for a second what the Inquisition thinks of her. Not just her hilarious lack of qualifications, but her lack of questions. It’s not that she kids herself into thinking that she knows everything about the game there is to know. She very much doesn’t. 

But the sort of questions she would like to ask aren’t likely to translate through hand gestures and drawings. And because she doesn’t bother asking about the basics—who they are, where they’re going, what happened at the Conclave—it looks like she has no questions to ask. 

That becomes more obvious as they make their way down the mountain and into the Hinterlands. She bounces between trying to hammer down a more complex sign language with Varric, and bothering Solas by stopping to pick every interesting flower and fern they come by. She can tell most of what she uproots are weeds at best, based on his twitching brows when she treats them as preciously as royal elfroot. Unlike Varric he doesn’t have any hair to put her spoils into, and she’s too scared to attempt the same with Cassandra, so she tries to braid them into a crown. 

She does not succeed. 

It doesn’t take long until the hike taxes her stamina, and she’s wincing from the beginning of blisters forming on her heels. She’s actually looking forward to eventually having horses to ride, even if she knows she’ll be saddle sore for days after. At least it will be a different kind of pain.

They take breaks—more than they would otherwise, she’s sure—which she spends carefully washing her feet with a wet rag and even more carefully drying them. Adventuring is turning out to be a lot less glamorous than she might have imagined—not just the blisters, and the bland food, and the suspicious water. Although her outfit is fitted for her size, the material is rougher than she is used to, and cut weirdly. Her thighs are going to be chafed raw at the end of the day, to say nothing of the heat rash she’ll have from the breast band. 

At least it’s still cold enough that insects aren’t much of an issue, but she is not too hopeful that’s going to last. The Hinterlands seems like the type of place that would have swarms of black flies and hornets. Maybe that’s why the bears are so angry. 

All which brings her back to her current dilemma: the Inquisition’s sanguine acceptance of her lack of confusion. If you think about it logically, she is extremely suspicious—and yet, there’s been very little in terms of questioning. They’ve so far concentrated on the immediately practical: names, battle tactics, relief plans. No one’s tried to ask about her background, where she comes from, nothing. She would expect Leliana to try, at least, considering she very much doubts there’s a Thedosian identity for her here. This is her body after all, scars and stretch marks and pain and all. 

She blinks tiredly as they pack up to continue. She should probably figure out what happened to the canonical Inquisitors. Whether they died at the Conclave, or if there’s a chance they can be recruited still. Or if there’s notices that need to be sent, about deaths. If she’ll have to find a way to save Lavellan’s clan, or negotiate for Adaar’s mercenary band, or deal with the Carta, or...whatever the quest was for the human Inquisitor. 

That will have to come later though, for now she’s got to survive the Hinterlands. She’s got to survive, and befriend a group of misfits without any options for dialogue trees. With no convenient backstory to rely on. 

It’s going to be real rough, she’s aware. 

She was the type of gamer who would look up wikis to find out how to max out the companions approval, and it’s not just because she is incapable of making pixel characters sad. 

As much as she hates conflict, she knows there’s no handy guide in real life for relationships. Being able to decide how the companions thought and treated her game avatar was always a question of control—of knowing the consequences and manipulating the odds in her favour. In real life things are...messy. You don’t know you’re hurting someone until it's done. 

In games, it’s clear cut. You make the choice, divorced from real life morals and ethics. Even in games with morality systems, it’s black and white—you get high off the power of becoming either a hero or a villain. But it’s still a choice. At most the consequences will be a different ending or some variance in loot. 

Real life isn’t so clean. Real life means you can ruin people’s lives, or your own. It means being careful of how you act, and what you say, and the people around you. It means being anxious, being nervous, being aware that you don’t always have control.

It means she’s vulnerable. And the Inquisition might not be asking questions yet, but they will soon. And even with a language barrier, she’ll have to find answers. 

She’d rather the party trusts her before that happens. 

She breathes out slowly. She doesn’t really dwell on the fact that she’s pretty much completely accepted that she’s not dreaming or in a coma at this point. She’s been putting off that breakdown for a while now. But if this is her reality, and she needs these people to like her, and her position is delicate and vulnerable and tied to her use as a Mark bearer; she should probably buckle up and befriend the one person in this group who has any real power. 

She loves Varric, because she usually loves rogue characters anyways, and he’s immensely likeable in general. She likes needling Solas, because she knows his secrets and there’s power there, even if he doesn’t realise it. Both of them she’s made token efforts to bond with. 

The only one left is Cassandra. But Cassandra is, as much as she loves her on paper, a difficult woman to connect with. 

Idunna hates religion, and duty, and expectations. She hates any sort of social construct that aims at controlling people—and Cassandra is mired deep in those constructs. She’s in a position of power, not just in the Inquisition, but in society. Princess, Seeker, the Divine’s Right Hand. She tries to be a good person, it’s true, but she is quick to anger and to judge. Quick to use the powers she’s been afforded to right the wrongs society says exist, and quick to ignore the wrongs of society. 

Idunna winces. 

She is being unkind, perhaps. Cassandra is not as orthodox as she might come across, especially if she develops as she does later in the game. She’s certainly not Cullen, for example. And, to be fair, she only knows the woman from flawed dialogue writing and half-remembered lore bits, most of which she learned from osmosis of being online or from friends. It’s quite possible she is painting her with a flawed brush.

Still. There is little she feels she can bond with there. 

But she must try. 

She thinks on it for another couple hours as they walk, until the path widens and the foliage blooms. No doubt they’re on the edge of the Hinterlands now, and based on the pace they’ve set, they should hit the Crossroads by dinner time. Soon they’ll be busy dealing with the hundred or so side quests—and she’s not naive enough to think that the canonical game side quests are going to be the end of the problems they’ll have to solve. 

She speeds up a little so she’s side by side Cassandra and grabs her attention with a quick gesture and smile. 

—

Cassandra is unsure how to feel about the Herald. There’s guilt, for being so quick to judge, and the niggling doubt—is this really the saviour Andraste would send in their time of need?—and a bit of reluctant awe. The lack of language makes working through these feelings even more difficult, as she would rather confront it directly and get the answers she craves from the Herald herself, instead of speculating over and over. 

Instead, she is forced to try and interpret vague hand signs, body language, and the messy subtleties of art. As a child she had tutors who attempted to teach her how to analyze the great works and their meanings, to derive sense out of colour and shape and the intersection of both. It was deemed a suitable hobby for a young princess, and a needed skill for anyone who would be conversing in polite society. It also supposedly would help teach her to have a keen eye for politics—for the hidden message in a certain kind of flower, the flows of favour of a certain subject matter, the veiled insults in clothing and backgrounds of an irate painter. 

It should not come as a surprise that she struggled at those lessons. 

Their travel to the Hinterlands passes quietly, if not quickly, for the most part. The Herald continues to at once act like a child new to the outdoors, and at once like a scholar deciphering something new. Methodically investigating plant life, rocks, even the soil itself. What she is looking for remains a mystery, and as the hours pass, Cassandra can’t help become even more unnerved. 

If it weren’t for a fact that multiple people had already searched her for signs of possession, Cassandra would think they’re facing a demon new to the waking world. But as far as the Inquisitions experts can tell, she’s a perfectly normal human. 

Just a very odd one. 

As Idunna sidles closer and looks towards Cassandra expectantly, with an almost wary look in her eyes, Cassandra can’t help but admit they have probably only uncovered the surface layer of mysteries surrounding their Herald. She attempts to follow the quick flash of hands Idunna gives once her attention is caught, but although they’ve made strides in developing shapes for battle words and strategies, the new language is still quite limited. 

Cassandra can’t help but look a little helplessly in Tethras’ direction. The dwarf has had the most luck in deciphering the Herald's attempt at communication, but from what she gathers, it’s still very much a work in progress. 

“I think she’s asking about your weapons,” he offers, watching the Herald’s hands intently. 

“Perhaps it would be easier teaching her the Trade tongue, instead of creating a fully new silent language,” the apostate points out. He’s not alone in that thought, Cassandra muses, even as she memorises the hand sign for sword as Idunna repeats it. 

“She hasn’t shown much interest in learning Trade, while seems much more enthusiastic about her signs,” Tethras points out. “Plus, it adds a layer of secrecy to Inquisition dealings—it would take a spy a lot of effort to learn.” 

“And in the meantime we are left to deal with the inconvenience,” Cassandra replies, attention split. “And we must somehow convince Mother Giselle of our sincerity with a mute Herald.” 

“Adds to the mystique,” Tethras refutes with a grin. “That whole saviour of Andraste deal.” 

They all pause and consider Idunna. 

“We’ll have our work cut out for us,” Cassandra sighs, before resolutely tuning out the ensuing bickering to concentrate on what the Herald is attempting to tell her. 

Idunna flashes her a grin, looking for all intents and purposes completely at ease with the lapse in attention. Cassandra herself would find her situation absolutely unbearable, not being able to understand anyone, and worse, not being able to make herself understood. But perhaps that is why Idunna is the Herald, and not either Cassandra or Leliana, despite their service to the Divine. 

“We really should figure out a weapon for you,” she muses, taking a guess at her meaning. There’s only so many ways to combine “Herald” and “Sword”, afterall. 

“Not a longsword,” she continues, eyeing her frame. “Nor a mace, I do not think. Not until we develop your upper body strength a little more.” 

There’s a bit of back and forth with signs for a moment before Idunna nods with a wry grin, shrugging her shoulders and flexing self-deprecatingly. Cassandra tries not to be charmed. It is refreshing to see that their Herald has a healthy sense of her own limitations—that, although it would be easy to fall into, she seems to lack much of an ego. 

“A spear, perhaps, or halberd” She offers, miming. “Although historically an apostate weapon—easy to disguise a staff, while also providing reach and the option of a bladed attack—it is also a respectable weapon. Would offer a more defensive option than something that would require close quarters.” 

She considers again. 

“Throwing spears are quite light, they wouldn't require much strength, but they do not have much in the way of defense. A partisan or guisarme would be better, but would require more training…” 

“Why not give her a military fork, at that point,” Tethras points out. “Not only is it easy to use, it has those little prongs for deflecting swords.” 

“It’s a peasant weapon,” Cassandra snorts. “Josephine would have my hide if I equipped the Herald with something so pedestrian.” 

“Might resonate with the farmers, you know. The ones Mother Giselle is supposedly helping in the Hinterlands,” Tethras replies, raising a brow. “Plus, anything that’s not a peasant weapon is likely going to require training we don’t have time to invest in.”

Cassandra winces. 

He is right, she knows. Still…

“It is practically just a pitchfork,” she sighs. “But you are right. It would be much easier to teach than something more... elegant.” 

“You could go even further and give her a man catcher,” the apostate interrupts, looking serenely amused at the twin looks of incredulousness he receives in return. “They’re one of the few non lethal weapons, and I might be assuming here, but I do not believe the Herald has a very strong stomach.” 

“That’s the one with the, uh, circle bit with latches that go around someone’s neck?” Tethras asks, looking disturbed. “I’m not sure if that’s any better than a spear to the gut. Don’t they have spikes on the inside?” 

“For piercing and catching armour,” Cassandra agrees, trying to imagine the Herald with something so unwieldy and cumbersome. A recipe for disaster if she’s ever seen one. 

“No.” She shakes her head, turning back towards the patiently waiting Herald. “A military fork will probably be our best bet. We should be able to requisition a proper one with Harritt, but in the meantime, I’m sure we can buy a pitchfork from one of the farms we’ll be passing. There’s not much time, but we can at least practice defensive stances in camp.” 

It will be a relief to not have to worry quite so much about the Herald if fighting breaks out. Even a simple weapon provides a little more protection than not having one at all—and as long as she can be sure the Herald won’t do more harm attempting to use a weapon with no training, such as a sword, equipping her just makes sense. 

It takes a while to explain the mechanics of a military fork to Idunna, and before Cassandra realises it, they’re stepping into the path of Leliana’s scouts and being told of the fighting further in the Crossroads. 

Cassandra frowns, looking over as Idunna fiddles with her vials of lyrium nervously. Suddenly, the questions about weaponry are becoming a lot less hypothetical. 

—

The scouts don’t use spears, for good reason. Hard to be inconspicuous with a spear. But a quick rough whittle of a nearby branch gives her a decent quarterstaff, which probably looks a little too much like a mage's staff for Cassandra’s nerves. 

Idunna isn’t too hopeful it will help her much. At most, she might be able to bludgeon someone or block a very obvious sword strike, but more than anything she’s going to hope she won’t need it. 

There’s no good way of explaining to Cassandra that she doesn’t want to fight the warring factions—that they’re all starving and half mad with pain and addiction and their own hatred, and they might be able to save some—not to mention she really doesn’t feel comfortable killing anyone in general—but she’s going to have to just hope that without the Herald leading the charge some of them might be able to make it out alive. The party will have to be a lot more defensive, since they’re down an experienced fighter. 

She gathers there's a bit of back and forth on whether it would be better to keep Idunna with the scouts until the coast is clear, but eventually it’s decided that she’ll be safer with Cassandra, for some reason. 

Attempting to talk it out with Varric gives her the sense that there was a fight in the area a little while ago that they just missed. She’s pretty sure it’s the fight she’d been expecting to stumble on, based on the game events, but their slower pace must have changed the timeline a little. Good to know that even small things like that can change, just because Idunna can’t walk as fast as the canon Inquisitor. 

“Haha, oh gods,” she mutters as she tries not to think of it, ignoring Varric’s curious eyes. “Well it’s not like I was confident in my knowledge of the game to start with.” 

They continue forward much more cautiously than before, once again in the defensive formation that they developed back in Haven, with Idunna in the middle of Solas and Varric. She spends the couple minutes of quiet to attempt to settle her stomach, with not much luck. 

She doesn’t consider herself to be the most morally upright individual. She doesn’t tend to flinch away from blood or gore, nor does she view killing as a black and white act that will damn her for eternity. She has a limited amount of empathy available to people who aren’t close friends or family, and she knows she’ll always prioritise their safety over a stranger’s. 

She also doesn’t think killing is something that should be as easy as it is, nor does she think that it’s an efficient solution—it’s a big thing, to take someone’s life. She doesn’t even support the death penalty, not even for convicted killers. The only time she’s been ok with it is the hypothetical thought of assassinating dictators, and that’s more a question of practicality than anything else. 

She can’t afford to flinch now, however, so she breathes out carefully and separates herself a little from her emotions. This isn’t necessarily a healthy way to deal with things, but after years of surgeries and failed prescriptions, she’s had to learn some way of coping with pain. This time it’s just emotional pain, instead of physical. 

She’ll have to trust the group to pull her back if needed, if she goes in too deep. Better that, than being paralysed by indecision and fear in the middle of a fight. 

The sound of birds chirping in the trees quiets, fades. She can make out the trickle of water not that far, the buzz of insects disturbed by their passing, the soft breaths of the party at her side. She lets herself fall further, inch by inch. She needs to be aware of people, so the breathing stays, but the insects go. The water is a directional landmark—she relegates it to the background, to help ground her in case she loses sight. 

She stares at the grain of the wood in her hands until she can count the individual strands, breathing in and out as she counts them over and over. She rubs her thumb against a knot until the warm wood fits as comfortable in her hand as her favourite cane. 

She settles into her body like an actor settles into a role. Flexing muscle by muscle, ignoring the pain, learning it’s secrets. 

She isn’t fast, or strong, or particularly graceful most days. But she has spent years forcing her body to come under her control, learning ways to scrap together some sort of power out of a sea of helplessness. 

She can’t control the pain, but she can control the steadiness of her hand drawing her mother’s face. She can’t stop the limp when it comes, but she can pass a soccer ball to her nephew when he comes over. She can’t sit up in bed some days, but she can breathe through the ache in her throat and sing. 

She can’t kill, but she can make sure she doesn’t die fighting. 

She spares one wry thought to her chosen experiments—explosions are not conductive to non-lethal fighting unless as a distraction—and shuts the rest out. 

—

When she comes back, it’s to a dull ache in her side—bruised, she hopes—and a staff that’s almost broken in two, chunks broken out of it with what her mind sluggishly points out has to have been sword strikes. The party is still standing, and though there are bodies on the ground, she carefully doesn’t look their way. Later, when she is feeling steadier, she’ll make sure they get a proper burial and the respect they deserve, but for now they are simply empty meat. 

She probably looks a wreck, and not just from the mud and sweat liberally coating her. At one point she’s pretty sure she got knocked to the ground, based on the dirt covering a good portion of her knees. One of them is bleeding. 

She sits down slowly and lets Cassandra fuss over her, slowly letting the adrenaline drain out. Now that she’s not high as a kite, every ache and pain is making itself known. She already knows her knees are going to be stiff as hell tomorrow, and she’s probably going to be walking with a limp for a while. She really misses her podiatric shoes right now, even though they’re ugly as hell. A firm hand checks her eyes for pupil dilation—at least that’s what she thinks Cassandra is doing—and there is a wash of noise as people talk above her. 

For now she just convinces her body that it is safe, and breathes through it all. There’s a lot to do, and she’ll get to it, but she needs a minute first. 

Just a minute. 

Varric gives her a sympathetic look as Cassandra finishes her check over. She tries to smile back—everything still feels a little floaty, so she has a hard time determining if it works—but there’s not much time to try and talk. The Crossroads is a disaster: crying refugees, broken buildings, the barked orders of the Inquisition forces attempting to bring it into order. In the corner of her eye she can just make out what has to be Mother Giselle. 

For once Idunna is glad she can’t speak whatever language exists in Thedas, because that’s one woman she doesn’t want to have a talk with. She glances at Cassandra and settles even more. It really should have been Cassandra speaking in the game, anyways. The Inquisitor is an unknown, controversial figure with no experience in Chantry affairs. While a religious figurehead, it’s not as if any real negotiating was done either way. 

She nods in Mother Giselle’s direction and stands up again, clasping a hand on Varric’s shoulder and one on Solas’ forearm. 

She has experiments to do, and she needs the both of them to do so. Cassandra can deal with the politics for right now—she knows she can’t get away with doing so forever, not only for the wellbeing of the Inquisition, but simply because she’s normally a control freak who will want a say in decisions—but for now her priorities are different. Nothing will settle her nerves quite as fast as setting something on fire through dubiously scientific methods. 

There’s questions and discussion happening above her head that she can’t understand that she just ignores, comfortable with the fact that she’s too important for the party to not follow her whims, and brings the both of them close to where someone has started what looks like a communal campfire, where she proceeds to steal some bear fat, two skillets, and a jug of water.

“Ok, experiment number two,” she says, flipping her notebook out so she can try and explain things. “The refugees need warmth and food, and although we can go hunting to help with the latter, the former will be more difficult since it involves stealing from the dubiously dead. Blankets never made that much sense anyways—so.” 

She tries to explain her idea with her limited means. Varric, bless his chest hair, picks up on the individual words the quickest, although it is Solas who gives them context. 

“So, we need a way to dilute lyrium into being reactive enough for heat and light, and non-reactive enough to not explode,” she muses, listing a few options to try and mix in. Water is a pretty solid option, except she’d be worried about it boiling off. “The cost of the lyrium itself I hope is a non-issue, since we hopefully won't need a lot of it.” 

Solas’ eyes are bright as he looks over her scribbles, off-handedly muttering something that Varric then tries to decipher for Idunna, sometimes adding his own two cents in. As a surface dwarf, his knowledge of the composition of lyrium is not necessarily deep, but he does have what she assumes to be horror stories of when attempts to use it have gone wrong, which is almost as useful.

It’s from them that she’s able to cross off a few options—most of which she doesn’t have the ingredients for, anyways—as well as a few hints about dwarven engineering she’s maybe a little too interested in deciphering. As she crosses things off her list, she eyes the leftovers with a keen eye, before cutting her attention back to Solas, who is attempting to write down a recipe for what she assumes is a lyrium potion, without using actual words. Supposedly there is a difference between the established recipe, and the one he considers to be superior. 

They devise a couple tests. 

First, how do a multiple of substances mix when combined with lyrium? Water requires some sort of binding agent, as it doesn’t quite emulsify on it’s own—lyrium is slightly too oily. Oil itself seems like a bit of a mixed result, and considering they only have animal fat on hand to try, she’s not sure if that’s because of the purity of what they have on hand. What she wouldn’t do for some actual whale oil.

She hunts down one of the healers and begs a small pot of honey—worth more than the lyrium, almost, although she doesn’t know if they’re using it to its full potential—and starts experimenting even further. 

“You’re probably asking why we’re using lyrium in the first place,” she chatters to Varric, ignoring the curious eyes of the refugees around them. “It’s mostly because I have a hunch about veilfire. Imprint of magic fire, and yet in the game it lights regular torches? Which means you don’t need to be a mage to use it. I bet, if you had an outside catalyst, you wouldn't even need to be a mage to light it. An outside catalyst like lyrium.” 

She shakes the vial of bear fat, lyrium, and honey vigorously. 

“So, if we need to heat up a large area, and we don't want to cut down the forest or smoke out the village, what's better than a never ending fire?” 

She hopes, at least. 

She tests the consistency of the mixture and gives it another swirl, before separating it out into two portions between both skillets. 

“Here.” She shoves one of them to Solas and makes the sign for fire magic. The other she gives to Varric, along with her tinderbox. 

And then she backs up quite a bit with a smile, ignoring their dubious expressions. 

“The Mark might unbalance the test,” she justifies, waving her glowing hand around. Their expressions don’t clear any. 

After a moment, Solas goes ahead and casts a barrier around the both of them, and then hovers a hand over the concoction with a furrow between his brow, wisps of flame flickering about his fingers. Smart of him to start small, she notes. 

Varric holds his portion and the tinderbox like either will explode—not an unreasonable thought—before waving a scout over and haggling for a moment for what turns out to be a pair of leather gloves. 

Idunna holds up a hand before he can follow Solas’ lead—she needs to concentrate on one at a time, in case there are subtle differences between the two—and watches in glee as the fire spell catches on with a spark of blue. 

The resulting fire isn’t quite like what she imagines veilfire is—it’s more blue than green, and unlike in the game, there’s flicks of yellow and orange here and there. After a moment the spell ends, and the fire continues to flicker merrily. 

Idunna edges closer and reaches a hand out—the non-glowing one—to test how much heat is being set off. 

It’s hard to judge, but she thinks it’s a little less than regular fire. 

“Ok, you can put that down,” she says to Solas, writing furiously. “The next test is how long it lasts, and whether it can spread like veilfire does to torches without actually burning anything. Let’s see if there’s any difference between the two.” 

She stares at Varric expectantly, even as in the background Solas talks with one of the refugees into finding an empty oil lamp to transfer his portion into. Probably a better idea than a skillet.

“Hmm. Not as much difference as I would expect,” she muses, watching the lyrium catch again. “Especially since as a dwarf you would theoretically have a lot less ambient magic, if that's even a thing.” 

There is one interesting difference to the two, however. 

“Now why would this happen?” she muses as she compares the two’s temperature with the very scientific method of repurposing the skillets to boil a little bit of water away. At this point even the scouts are watching her, some of them muttering in confusion and interest. 

If she had to bet, she would have said the one made with magic would be more potent—you’re basically multiplying the energy put into the equation, after all—but it ends up being the complete opposite. The non-magic version burns hotter. 

“Now why would this happen?” she asks slowly, mind racing even as she writes down the results. Solas peers at her notebook from behind her shoulder—brave of him, her writing could probably give a scholar a heart attack even if they can’t read her language—and says something in reply. 

Well. She’s reading it as a reply, even if he realistically has no idea what she’s saying. As he continues to gesture, pointing at certain drawings as he does, her eyes slowly light up. 

“Of course. Magic is about intent—Solas purposefully used a small flame spell, probably one he normally uses to lit a candle, and that intent would have passed on to the lyrium when the fire was made—and Varric doesn’t have any way to connect his intent to the lyrium, so it used the fire itself as a template. And fire naturally wants to burn hot, so even a spark would be hotter than a mage’s candle spell—”

She pauses. If lyrium inherits the lower power levels of the spell used to ignite it, the opposite has to be true, too. They could probably make something a lot more dangerous, if the intent was behind it to be there. And that’s probably not that much different from other Fade artifacts. For example, one catalyst in the hands of someone who wants to tear the veil down to bring back a supposed golden age, versus someone who wants to go physically into the Fade to claim a throne.

She slowly lifts her head and stares back at Solas. 

“The Breach isn’t bringing the Fade to the physical world, is it?” she says quietly, as if the world itself can hear and understand her. “It’s bringing the physical world to the Fade.”

She can practically taste the answer, hovering in the back of her mind, but she doesn’t have time to let it coalesce before she’s startled out of her staring contest by Cassandra’s voice shouting about the fires lit in the middle of camp.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idunna continues being gremlin 
> 
> Want to talk fanfic? [ discord here](https://discord.gg/cun3KPZ)

Idunna feels a bit like a disobedient child being punished, as Cassandra pushes her into the dirt with the flat of a blade again. The pitchfork they were able to borrow off a farmer clatters to the ground next to her.

“This is hopeless,” she sighs up at the torn up sky. “You might as well give me a really big shield so I can spend the whole time hunched behind it like a turtle. Why didn’t we decide on that?”

No answer, of course. Cassandra isn’t like Varric, who will chatter with her even though neither of them understands each other.

A hand reaches out and pulls her up again, and she forces a tired grin on her face at Cassandra’s worried expression.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

Well, it’s a little more than that, but she knows her limits. She can continue a little longer, before the pain will become debilitating. Then she’ll let Varric wrap her in blankets and stare at the pretty colours the veilfire experiment makes as the others settle up their affairs in the crossroads.

At least she’s been able to communicate her plan with the fire to the others, so now the refugees are clustered around braisiers of blue-green fire that doesn’t burn out. And with a bit of experimenting, they found that if Solas casts the original fire spell with the intent to heat instead of burn, it warms up the area much better than a natural fire.

And, best of all, they only need one “seed” of veilfire to spawn off other offshoots. Which means as long as the main bonfire burns, the town won’t need a mage to hang around.

Some of the refugees were rather suspicious of it of course, but their desperation works in her favour here.

She gets back into position and watches quietly as Cassandra brandishes her sword again. The fork gives her reach, and space to react, but she still needs to time things properly. Otherwise she’s just holding a big stick.

Well, big sticks can be useful too.

She settles her weight on both feet and lets her knees loosen as much as they can with the inflammation starting to eat at the joints. One hand above, the other below, space between the two to give her leverage as she twists the fork to intercept the flashing blade.

Metal hits metal as she just catches the sword on one of the prongs, sliding against the slightly rusted iron. A quick twist of her wrists wrenches the sword as she heaves down, yanking Cassandra’s arm so that her front is exposed. This is where she’s supposed to step forward and thrust.

She trips as her knee gives out instead.

“...ow,” she mutters with a faceful of dirt.

A quick torrent of gibberish from above her signals Cassandra ending their spar.

The rough burst of laughter tells her that Varric is watching, and she slowly gets to her knees as a hand reaches down to help her up again. The glorious Herald of Andraste, that’s her alright.

“I see you’ve abandoned your new friends in the scouts to laugh at my pain,” she bemoans as he steps closer. A flash of teeth is her only answer.

“That’s it, we’re picking up Blackwall next,” she replies, crossing her arms. “He’s too nice to laugh at me. I mean he’s a child murderer, but at least he’s nice.”

She really should figure out what quests they have to do themselves, honestly. If she can get enough of the inner circle quick enough, she can probably organise strike teams to deal with the rest of it—and, honestly, she has no clue why the Hinterlands has to be so full of quests when the other areas are so empty. Why does the Storm Coast even have bandits if there’s no towns there?

“We need to figure out what we absolutely can’t delegate to the scouts,” she tells Varric as he helps her settle near the bonfire. “Doesn’t Leliana have assassins we can send to poison the bandits? Or at least someone to go escort that druffalo back home.”

God, the canon Inquisitor’s life is ridiculous.

She flashes through some signs and convinces Varric to pass over the map. She doesn’t remember a whole lot, honestly, besides some of the more memorable sidequests. She knows where that one rift is, because she died to it like five times. She knows vaguely where the wolves are, because she once got a glitch where one of the wolves got stuck in a nearby rock and she had to load up an older save to fix it.

“You know what. I’m gonna see if I can save that one elf,” she says, ignoring Varric as he leans over to watch her draw out the game icons on the map. “I hate how she’s dead no matter how quickly you save that one scout. And like, no one seems to care, not even the scout she was making out with?”

That seems like a safe enough sidequest to take on, with the group she has. There’s only a few Templars to fight, and it’s something she knows is time sensitive. Blackwall can wait, there’s no way the pitiful amount of bandits that show up in his introduction will be a problem. In fact she’s pretty sure she spent that whole fight trying to pick Blood Lotus.

“There’s also the noble woman who dies on route to the cult, but I have no clue where she gets attacked anymore. I have a vague idea of where the scout is found though,” she continues, slowly filling out the rest of the map from memory.

She passes it over again and flips her notebook out in its stead.

“Ok so, we’re looking for a female scout, partnered with a male scout, who has a predilection for pretty elven ladies.”

She really has to stretch the meaning of some of the signs and symbols they’ve developed to try and get that across, and she’s pretty sure Varric thinks she’s asking for a very different reason.

She could probably do with some making out, honestly, so she doesn’t bother correcting him. Varric seems like he would either be a horrible wingman, or an amazing one.

She tries to think about any other side quests in the area that are time sensitive, and comes up blank. Her memory really is horrible.

“Ok, so, food for the refugees, towers and wolves for Bennet, saving the elf, recruiting Blackwall. And fixing what rifts we can. Then back to Haven to regroup. Then hopefully Krem will be there and I can pick up Bull on the way to Val Royeaux. Then Sera and Vivienne.”

She scribbles that down.

“Need to see if Leliana has implemented my propaganda ideas. I’ll see if I can mock up some posters before we leave—one of the scouts can send it back to Haven…”

She fades off as a bowl of stew replaces her book, and she is forced to blink up at a disapproving Cassandra. Right. Food. Good for refilling all those important minerals and vitamins she’s just sweated out during the spar. Solas settles on the other side of her and asks something quietly over her head to Varric.

She leans forward, letting their words wash over her, and tucks into the food.

—

Solas is...bewildered. It is not a pleasant feeling, and he usually counts himself to be lucky enough not to feel it often. Their Herald is skilled at confounding, however, and he is coming to realise it will take some getting used to before it will stop.

He hopes it will stop.

As it is, he has not seen such interesting applications of lyrium in a long time. The dwarves can create intricate enchantments and mimic magic with their crafts, and he knows some of their fortresses even make use of veilfire itself. He has not seen them use it in such a way, however.

Part of him cannot help but think it dangerous, giving the power of veilfire to non-mages, who will not know the significance of what they hold. This imitation does not behave like regular veilfire, although it does twist the Veil in similar ways. A close cousin, not a twin.

The fact that so far the refugees are willing to trust this modified veilfire just goes to show how desperate they are, and how quickly the Herald’s mythos is spreading already. Magic that, coming from the hands of a mage, would be turned away with prejudice, is instead uneasily accepted.

It is remarkable, as much as it frustrates him.

Now, if only the Herald wouldn’t be so cavalier with the Mark, these rediscoveries of hers might actually excite him. It is hard, however, to dredge up much enthusiasm when she is trying to use the Mark to light a campfire.

“She’s certainly... something,” Tethras remarks, as they watch her struggle to get a spark lit.

“The more time passes, the more questions I have,” Solas responds, feeling an eye twitch as something arcs off her hand into the nearby dirt, kicking up dirt and causing the scouts around them to yelp.

“You’re not the only one,” the dwarf snorts, before glancing over with narrowed eyes. “You seen the map yet?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he answers, forcing himself to turn away from the chaos. “Has something been determined?”

“Well, the Herald scribbled all over our copy, and I think I’ve finally decoded it. Some interesting landmarks.”

“Oh?” he finds curiosity creeping back into his voice. He’s been attempting to decode the Herald’s writings himself, with little luck.

“A few locations that seem to be rifts—predicted eerily accurately—one that seems to be marking a wolf den, another a bandit camp. One that I’m pretty sure is meant to indicate some sort of hostage situation, and yet another that looks like a beard. Not sure about that one. Oh, and about half the map is just filled with bears.”

“Interesting. Perhaps the Mark gives her the ability to feel where rifts will spawn—a sort of sympathetic magic.” He’s seen no reason why the Mark would have such a utility, but it has already surprised him. He is learning not to take his previous theories as gospel.

“Well you would know better than me,” Tethras says. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it? So far we’ve found nothing to indicate she’s ever stepped foot in the Hinterlands.”

Solas pauses.

“...True. You would think she wouldn’t have much experience with a map of the area. She is remarkably different from the rest of the locals.”

“The Nightingale was saying there had been reports in Haven of favours granted before being asked—notes found, supplies gathered, things like that. Our Herald seems to have a knack for showing up with what is needed just as people need it,” Tethras continues, in a musing tone.

“...There have been stories of soothsayers in the past, but the magic mentioned has never shown itself to be particularly accurate,” Solas replies, doubtfully.

“And she’s not a mage in the first place,” the dwarf agrees, shrugging. “It does make for a good story, though, doesn’t it?”

Solas hums noncommittally and turns back to watch Idunna’s attempts at fire. So far she has not had much luck in concentrating the Marks power to anything but Fade dispelling, and much of what she has had success with seems instinctual. It makes him rather sure that the Seeker’s patience will wane before she makes any noticeable progress.

Uncanny luck or something more calculated, it’s hard to say. But he finds it hard to be that worried in either case—she has shown no signs of knowing of his own plans, and even if she did. Well. How would she inform the others?

—

The Herald and her retinue return to Haven none the worse for wear, bringing news from the horse master and Mother Giselle. They also bring back a Grey Warden named Blackwall, who quietly shuts himself in a room on the outskirts of the town and rarely leaves.

It is good to see the Herald, of course, and to hear of the progress being made. It helps bolster the morale of the townsfolk, and lets them fine tune their plans.

It’s just…

Josephine has to admit there has been some trouble getting everything settled in Haven, politically. They have few allies, and fewer willing to lend an ear to a group whose figurehead is mute and illiterate. They’ve done what they can, to spread the word and embellish the stories, to lend a bit more gravitas to the Herald that otherwise might not be there, but there is only so much that can be done in that regard.

Especially when the Herald is exploding parts of the landscape in a series of experiments that Josephine ill understands.

“Is this where all our lyrium stock is ending up?” she asks worriedly, as across the courtyard the apostate Solas douses the fire with a less than graceful jerk.

“Oh, no, it’s worse than that. The Herald has figured out a recipe that requires very little actual lyrium,” Lady Cassandra says with dread. “So we are now not even reliant on our stocks of the stuff. Do not ask me the details, I would not understand even if she was able to describe the process.”

“It is a bit odd,” Mister Tethras agrees. “Since it’s the lyrium itself that is unstable, usually. I gather she’s found a few ingredients that, uh, help it along? So she doesn’t need as much.”

There’s another brief burst of light, this time accompanied by a crackle of lighting-like mana.

“And... what is the goal here, exactly?” Josephine asks, glancing at the walls, where some of the village children are watching with wide eyes. “And must it be done so publicly?”

“Supposedly she is attempting to create a non-lethal version of the previous explosive vials. Our Herald is a bit of a soft touch, it turns out,” Mister Tethras replies, to which Lady Cassandra just snorts.

“At least she is still practicing with the fork, when she can. Her physique is quite dismal, really. I’ve been meaning to ask Adan to do another examination—her injuries should have healed already, but I am starting to think she’s in more pain than she is expressing,” Lady Cassandra says.

“Oh, I hope not,” Josephine fretts. “Perhaps you can convince her to sit for her portrait today, instead of these experiments? Lady Leliana wishes for those pamphlets to be distributed in the cities by next week.”

“They’re really going with the pamphlets?” Lady Cassandra asks, raising a brow.

“Hey, don’t go knocking pamphlets. Look at all the good publicity my book made for Hawke,” Mister Tethras replies.

“It was the Herald’s suggestion,” Josephine agrees, smoothing down her dress. “She has made quite a few about ways we might keep recruitment high.”

They all pause to watch as Solas is forced to barrier both himself and the Herald with magic just as something catches on fire again, to the Herald's excited yells.

“...Speaking of, she had a few propositions on delegations we should speak about.” Josephine grabs desperately at a new topic. “Specifically on using small groups to clean up the areas before the Herald must arrive to close rifts. There is a chance, now that we are gathering more skilled fighters, one of you will be asked to lead these groups.”

“That’s clever,” Lady Cassandra muses. “It was the Herald that decided this?”

“Well…” She bites her lip and thinks on how to phrase things diplomatically. She’s working off very little sleep at the moment, and all her honeyed words are coming more slowly these days. “The Herald communicated with Lady Leliana, who then looked at the logistics of such.”

“Do we have the scouts and soldiers for that?” Mister Tethras asks, with a raised brow.

“We’re stretched thin right now, but more arrive as the word spreads,” Josephine replies, with some relief.

“And hopefully we might find some support with the Chantry in Val Royeaux,” Lady Cassandra says, with an expression that speaks loudly about the likelihood of that.

“Speaking of, if one of you could impress on the Herald the importance of comportment while in Val Royeaux…”

“We can try,” Mister Tethras snorts. “But trust me when I say, some people are a lost cause.”

She wonders for a moment if he’s talking about the Champion of Kirkwall, who reports say to be quite the eccentric character in his own right. Curiosity nips at her heels, knowing that there’s someone who can verify the gossip right in front of her—but then, she is well versed in knowing when someone is more likely to speak fiction than truth, and Varric Tethras spends more time weaving tales than he does writing down facts.

“That is all I can ask,” she replies, giving her farewells to the both of them.

She has correspondence to write, courtiers to court, merchants to haggle, and the town to oversee. She will have to trust in the good sense of the Herald and her guards for the rest.

As hard as that feels sometimes.

—

“And how are you today, Baby Murderer?” Idunna asks Blackwall as they saddle their bags again. “Rooms gloomy enough? Have you met your brooding quota today?”

The man sideyes her, not quite used to her ways yet. Yet. At least he’s as gentle as he appeared to be in game, a sort of sad, depressed dad type. She’s already caught him carving little toys for the kids around Haven, and even though he rarely leaves his rooms, when he is out and about he’s usually helping out where he can.

Truly, she’s picked well, recruiting the identity stealing, baby murdering soldier.

They’re on one last trip for supplies and side quests before Val Royeaux, and she’s pretty sure the only reason they’re heading back to the Hinterlands is because the big three want her and her experiments away from Haven until they’re ready. The town is getting more traffic, and Idunna has a bad habit of scaring off potential patrons by accident. Josephine probably doesn’t want her reputation tanking any further than it is before they can actually talk to the Chantry.

Joke’s on Josephine though, because even if Idunna was an Andrastian Saint, the Chantry would still be stuck up assholes about the Inquisition.

Anyways, it’s a good excuse to get to know Blackwall a bit more, even if it does seem like a waste of time and resources. Also she really doesn’t want to go back to the Hinterlands and deal with more bears.

“The watchtowers are being built already, what do they really need us for?” she complains, before signing her question again to Varric when he looks over in question.

The response she gets back boils down to more rifts, and she winces. Ok, so maybe they didn’t leave the Hinterlands side quest free, but by now they should have figured out an evacuation procedure for rift-riddled areas. It’s not as if the rifts do much until someone wanders by—cordon them off with some sort of barrier, and then make sure the locals know that they’re risking dismemberment to cross it.

“This is bullshit,” she informs Blackwall pleasantly, and ignores how most of her current mood has more to do with the ache in her knees than anything else.

At least it’s warmer further down the mountain, even if it does mean she has to be outside, riding a horse and running from demons and trying not to die by bandits.

She glances over the side, where Cassandra is saddling up with some of the soldiers and scouts, and hums in satisfaction that at least one thing is going right. No inner circle members waiting idly back at home when they could be useful and do her job for her, no siree.

And, if that leaves her with the Baby Murderer as a guard instead of the religious cultist, well…

“You know how to gut a fish, right?” she asks him, nudging her horse to come up besides his. After days of riding, she’s finally figured out how to actually steer the animals, which is a real step up in her mind.

“I’m asking because Cassandra refuses to teach me anything actually practical, besides poking people with a long stick, but you look like the kind of dad that would know how to fish and hunt even if you didn't live in a make believe fantasy land.”

Blackwall can’t reply to her, of course, but some quick signs in Varric’s direction has them quickly discussing and translating back.

Yes, Blackwall knows how to fish. Yes, he’s willing to teach her how. No, they will not be using her military fork to do so, spearfishing requires a completely different spear type.

“I wonder if I can modify the lyrium bombs for dynamite fishing,” she muses, shifting in the saddle. Her legs are already stiff, and she’s starting to get tired of her pain levels all the time. It’s not just the pain, really—she’s used to that. It’s the fact that her life is suddenly a lot more active and stressful, which makes the pain _worse_.

It’s for sure not going to be sustainable for much longer, especially since so far she’s not figured out how to hash out a treatment plan that includes elfroot. She has a sneaking suspicion that sort of thing would require months of research with Solas and Adan, since she’s already tried the local brews.

She eyes Solas consideringly.

“Is there a way to distill elfroot down into something more concentrated?” she asks, having to be a little creative with the signs to get it across.

He pauses to think about it, before signing back.

“That’s—Blood Lotus?” she asks, digging out her book to the page where the herbs are listed. “No wait, Amrita Vein? What even is that—oh, you’re saying it can work as a sedative? Or poison? I mean those are basically the same thing—”

She squabbles back and forth with him for the rest of the trip, distracting her body with figuring out if she can recreate painkillers with the Thedas equivalent of magical weed. If she brews it with willow bark, and something like Kava Root—if Thedas even has it—she might be able to get something close to her usual muscle relaxants.

She has a sudden image of the inner circle high as kites and has to stifle a laugh, ignoring Blackwall’s startled glance in return.

She sobers quickly when they pass by a ruined house, still smoldering, on the outskirts of the Hinterlands. When they had passed by here a couple days, the house still had a small farming family living in it.

She gestures for the group to halt, nodding Varric over to sneak around the back. They haven’t had much time to incorporate Blackwall into their formation, or teach him more than just the very basics of signs, but he’s sharp eyed enough to follow their lead. He dutifully shuffles his horse to the front, becoming a literal meat shield for Idunna to hide behind.

There’s a tense few moments before Varric comes back, face grim.

The quick signs he flashes out are not a surprise, even if she had hoped for a different story.

“Mark it in the map, with anything that could identify them,” she says, signing along, even as Varric is already opening his pack for the map. “Solas, Varric, you two are on lookout. Blackwall, with me.”

She slides off her saddle and pats her horse on the nose in apology for the less than graceful dismount. It also gives her an excuse to hold on to the saddle for a second longer as she tries to get her legs under her. She then moves around the beast to retrieve the shovel she’d requisitioned when they made it back to Haven.

She leads Blackwall towards the house, tucking her scarf around her nose as an afterthought, and uses the handle of the shovel to nudge the door open. It opens to very obviously ransacked, one room home, with most of the south side of it charred and sagging. In the centre of what once was a kitchen are two bodies, with another halfway across the room near the window. At a glance she thinks they must have died by steel, instead of the fire. She’s not sure if that was a mercy or not.

“The rains must have quenched the fire before it could spread and destroyed the house completely,” she mutters, even as she moves further in. This is the inglorious aspect of magic and knights the game rarely showed. It’s not even the tragedy of it anymore that gets to her anymore.

It’s how mundane it is. How the dead are just so much inert flesh at the end of it all.

“Right,” she mutters quietly, glancing about until her eyes land on a half-opened chest, spilling out its contents of quilts and sheets. No doubt whoever ransacked the house was looking for something worth selling, although she’s not sure what they thought they would find in such a small, poor homestead.

She steps gently through the ruins of the house and digs out the finer quilts, before gesturing to Blackwall to help her as she rolls the body over and straightens their limbs. Between the two of them they get the bodies wrapped up and carry them out the door, to lay outside.

She glances up at the sky and squints.

“We’ll have to be quick, if we want to get this done before we attract any predators with the smell of rotting meat,” she says, snagging the shovel back up to pass to Blackwall. “You’re stronger, and my back can't handle digging three graves. I’m going to see if there’s anything I can use in the house as gravestones.”

Blackwall looks a little loss, but takes the shovel all the same, a strange look in his eye. No doubt he’s angsting about it all, in some way that’s going to connect to his own backstory. She doubts he had time to bury his own slaughtered victims. Maybe she’ll send him specifically to areas they know are being plagued by bandits, as some sort of catharsis. Or maybe that will just make his guilt complex worse.

She heads back into the house and frowns again at the destruction.

It’s not just empathy and guilt that’s motivated her to start burying the many neglected corpses in Thedas. She’s also being practical on two fronts—unburied corpses can carry disease, attract predators, and possibly also attract demons. They have enough angry spirits wandering about, she doesn’t need the extra work of having all these unjustly killed peasant folk standing up again to go on a stroll.

So, burying bodies, and trying to find any family to inform them of said burials. Which often can only be done if they’ve left some unique personal effect behind.

She quietly closes the door behind her and starts to search.

—

The rest of the trip passes quietly, luckily. Although a demon does try to eat Idunna’s brains out. Luckily Blackwall is as good of a meat shield as Cassandra is, and she walks away from that fight with a mild concussion at worst. They clean up some of the rifts they left behind, as well as some other side quests they stumble on.

Oddly enough, despite being rather useless solving most of the peasants’ problems, Idunna is recognised a few times by the refugees and farmers at the Crossroads, who all wave down the party to press something small but thoughtful into her hands. Since the time she’s been away, they’ve even started working with the veilfire, adding actual lanterns and candles to the roads. It gives a very eerie atmosphere to the place, casting the makeshift buildings in a greenish hue at night.

She expands her trinket collection, learns how to gut a fish, bullies an old woman into showing her how to darn a sock, and experiments with different distilitions of elfroot. She figures out more signs with Varric, practices her fork when her joints aren’t too stiff, bonds with her horse—now named Apple, because she’s creative—catches up with the elf she saved and her scout girlfriend, and sneaks out at night to play more with the Mark when Solas isn’t paying attention.

She’s been productive, practical. She’s kept up with everything she has had to do with spite and unhealthy stubbornness, and although she knows she’s worried the others a few times from her swinging moods, there’s not much she can do about that until she rediscovers codeine.

By the time they’ve settled all the rifts and get notified by raven that it’s time to head to Val Royeaux, Idunna is more than tired of, well, everything.

The ride passes in a blur, before she finds herself blinking up at the row and row of statues that bracket the main road of Val Royeaux.

“This was a bad idea,” she complains to Cassandra—Blackwall back at Haven preparing for another trip out to clean up. “I am probably going to end up starting a riot or something like that.”

She’s gotten so used to signing as she talks that she doesn’t even realise Cassandra catches any of that before she gets a disappointed look and a quick “no” of a response back.

“Oh come on, you know me well enough now,” Idunna whines, stumbling down off Apple with a huff, off-handedly accepting the hand Varric offers to steady her with. She pats him on the shoulder and tucks another wildflower into his hair.

Solas signs something back that she only half catches, but is probably a backhanded compliment on her diplomacy.

“I’m ditching you for Sera,” she warns him, pointing. “You’re going to think it’s Vivienne, because she’s a mage, but then I’ll show Sera how to add lyrium bombs to her arrows and you mages are going to be stuck on the sidelines having tea parties. I’m sure you and Vivienne would get along, being both condescending assholes...”

She doesn’t sign that, obviously, although she takes some solace in the way he raises his eyebrows, obviously understanding her tone if not her words.

Leliana’s scout meets them at the gates of the city, and Idunna tunes out the ensuing conversation even as she keeps an eye out for any suspiciously hooded elven mages. Not seeing any, she snags the back of Varric’s tunic and nods at the scout.

Varric, the amazing friend that he is, gamely translates her request.

The reason Alexius used time magic in the first place was because people noticed Fiona talking to the Inquisitor in game, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes Idunna did misremember Dennet as Bennet. She has as many braincells for remembering DA lore as I do, which is to say, none


End file.
